Need to make up for a week of non-fiction. The usual response in this circumstance is to reverse engineer my weblog, write a considerable stream of prose, fresh from memory, about what I did in the past times. Those times when I was not writing - if I was not writing, I ask myself, then what was I doing?
Posting thoughts back into the week. Throwing them like pebbles, returning them to the sea in which they were smoothed. In these instances - brought on by boredom or too much time, or not enough time, or something to do or nothing to do - attempt to write densely, cryptically, pretentiously. This way I can split my meanderings up, edit them into several pieces of prose, append lengthy banal passages about walks by the river, or courtyards filling with sunlight, or meals made and eaten. I can barely wait.